Page 142 of Immune

“I’m not one of your soldiers,” I point out.

He faces forward again. “Didn’t say you were.”

“Then why are you talking to me like I am?” I push, irritated beyond belief.

“I’m talking like we’re on hostile ground,” he answers shortly.

“Everything is hostile ground,” I remind him, as if he hasn’t seen the outside world in the past six fucking years. There isn’t neutral ground on this godforsaken Earth anymore.

He’s quick with a reply, and I grit my teeth as he says, “Then you should know better than to wander.”

My hand tightens around my knife just as Ewan whispers loudly from behind me, “Oh yeah, a beautiful morning for a little sprinkle of group tension.”

“Not now,” Fletcher warns.

Ewan backs down instantly with a retort. “Gotcha. Scheduling conflict. I get it. We’ll talk later or something.”

Xeon’s eyes flick between us with that sharp calm that makes my hackles rise, and Kaito says nothing, which is somehow worse.

Fletcher pushes through a half-open metal gate that leads into a storage area. The room is large, square, and windowless, with rows of metal shelves bolted securely to the floor. Most have been toppled or picked clean, and some still hold boxes, plastic crates, old maintenance supplies, sealed buckets, dead batteries, and dust-covered tools.

One wall has a medical station with a cracked green cross sign and my whole body locks in on it.

Medical supplies. Maybe painkillers. Bandages. Antiseptic. Fresh tape if the universe has decided to be hilariously generous before deciding to punch me in the teeth.

“Clear in pairs,” Fletcher orders. “Xeon, pilot. Kaito, door. Ewan, sound check. Dakota, with me.”

A laugh bursts out of me. It’s sharp, it’s wrong, and it holds so little humor that Ewan almost recoils from it.

Everyone looks at me, but I only have eyes for Fletcher, staring a hole into his face as I demand, “How about you try that again.”

He frowns. “What?”

“Try it again, Scar. But this time, choose your words a little better,” I repeat.

“We don’t have time for this,” he retorts blandly.

“No,” I agree. “We don’t. So you best choose those words with haste, and make sure they’re the fucking right ones.”

His jaw flexes.

Well, would you look at that. He’s pissed.

That makes the two of us.

“Dakota,” Xeon tries softly.

I point my knife at him without even looking over at him, continuing my staring competition with the scarred Alpha barking orders at me like he has every right. “Don’t even think of gentle-parenting me right now.”

Ewan chokes, but Fletcher steps closer. Not too close, but close enough that cedar and leather sneak through the damp concrete and old blood. “You’ll sweep the medical station with me.”

“No,” I volley.

“This isn’t a request.”

The room goes very still at that, and my pulse suddenly becomes a blade under my skin.

“That,” I say quietly. “That right there is your problem.”